Growing up queer in the ’90s was an adventure in contradictions—joy and fear, belonging and alienation, discovery and rejection. For me, it all came to a head one late summer night in 1994 when a chance encounter with a cryptic billboard and a subsequent journey through faith, community, and homophobia set me on an unexpected spiritual path. It’s a story of searching for God in a world that often felt hostile to young people like me and finding my sense of peace and purpose along the way.
One Wednesday night in late summer 1994, I snuck out with my friend Hopey and borrowed my mom’s 1970s blue Monte Carlo to drive to Woody’s—the only gay club in Philly with a teen night. The car was busted, but it got us where to go. After dancing until 2 a.m., Hopey and I piled back into the car to head home. At a red light, I looked up and saw a billboard promoting a Christian radio station. It read: “He’s coming! Feel His wrath this September!” My heart sank. I nudged Hopey to look up, and the fear in her eyes mirrored my own. There we were, two teenagers in my mother’s car, convinced the world was ending. And no, we weren’t high or drunk.
As we parked the car where my mom had left it, the night’s joy faded into unease. We swore to never speak of what we’d seen. It felt like we had stumbled upon a lost biblical prophecy. I remember saying, “We can’t tell anyone. They’ll panic.” But inwardly, I was already thinking, “I need to get my life right. I gotta get saved.”
Religion had always unnerved me. The Pentecostals who set up chairs and microphones on the street corner to scream at us sinners didn’t help. Their sermons—shouted in Spanish—felt like waves of damnation. I didn’t understand the words, but I felt the judgment.
About a week later, I was sitting on my front steps when two Mormon elders approached. Unlike the Pentecostals, they were calm and didn’t make me feel judged—at least not at first. By the end of our conversation, I had agreed to join their Bible study. For weeks, I learned about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, all while hip-hop blared in the background and family chaos unfolded around me. People stared at me like I was getting even weirder, and honestly, I probably was.
When I finished the Bible study, the elders told me I could now be baptized. But first, I had to answer three mandatory questions. I don’t remember all of them, but one was about same-sex attraction. It threw me. “Why is this important?” I asked. They replied, “It just is. If you’re uncomfortable, you can meet with the district prophet.” So I did.
The prophet was an older white man in a corporate-looking suit. His office walls were lined with portraits of past prophets—all white. I asked, “God doesn’t talk to Black people?” His face hardened. I could tell he saw me as a troublemaker. He dismissed me with a quick, “Did you ask for forgiveness?” and I mumbled, “Yeah, I guess.” He gave my baptism the green light.
The following Sunday, I showed up at the Mormon church with my gay friends. They smoked and laughed outside as I prepared to be dunked in water. Dressed in a white jumpsuit, I stood in the baptismal pool as the elder prayed over me. When asked if I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart, I said, “Yup,” mainly because it was too late to back out.
Afterward, I was determined to commit. I walked about two miles to church every Sunday. The congregation was predominantly Black and Latinx, except for the elders. They were all white. Over time, I learned about the church’s history of racism—they had only started allowing Black members in the 1970s. Still, I stuck it out because I was more afraid of hell than their sketchy past.
One Sunday, an elder introduced me to another young man who had recently been baptized. “He loves Janet Jackson, just like you,” they said—code for, “He’s gay, just like you.” We hit it off immediately and spent the rest of the service laughing in the back row.
Then he whispered, “Those girls a few rows up just called us faggots.” I felt a surge of rage. As we exited, I shouted, “Yo, called us faggots?!” The girls turned out to be the bishop’s family. The bishop urged me to “let it go” because “that’s what Jesus would do.” But I couldn’t. That moment shattered any illusion that this place could be safe for me. I left and never went back.
About a year later, one of the elders called. He admitted he hadn’t finished his mission—a big deal in Mormon culture. He said he had learned to accept his “failure” and told me, “God loves you no matter who you are, what you do, or what the church tells you. He accepts us all.” His words moved me deeply.
In the years since, I’ve wrestled with what I was taught about God and what I’ve come to believe. As a young queer person, I didn’t have support groups or social media. It was lonely, but that elder’s words gave me a place to start.
It’s been almost 30 years since that night when Hopey and I thought the world was ending. We never talked about it again, but she was there when I was baptized. The Janet fan and I stayed friends for years—he’s still a huge Janet fan! I haven’t heard from the elder who called me, but I hope he knows how much his kindness meant.
I’ve never regretted getting baptized. It set me on a path to discovering my own spirituality. It gave me the courage to define my relationship with God. Today, I know I am loved. I wish this peace for anyone who fears the world’s end. I wish this peace for anyone searching for something bigger. We are worthy of love and eternal life—right here, right now.
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